The 3 Stages Of Falling Apart

You walked into the room and it was full of people, but I didn’t see the people.

You shot me a cynical look and I already knew what you were thinking.

It’s not our crowd, not the life we care to live, not the friendships we look to cultivate and not the atmosphere for people like us to thrive.

We knew this. We know this.

I wished it would always be the same entrance, always the same exchange of looks, and a few stolen minutes to whine about it.

We were strangers for a few hours that night, but I still looked at you for a sense of belonging.

I wrote about you long before I met you. That’s how much I felt I knew you.

We walked together into the room and it was full of people, but all I saw was them.

You grew guns for eyes and your glances, well, they were bullets that could rip through me even with my eyes closed.

We craved being among a crowd, because being alone meant spending hours like they were agonizing years.

We didn’t care that we had phony friendships as long as they saved us from each other’s company.

In public, we were whatever people wished to be. In private, we were everything we never wished to be.

The more we spoke, the less we listened to each other.

The space shrank. The distance grew.

Words between us felt like escaping blades. So silence prevailed.

I never wrote about you as you were anymore. I created fantasy spin-offs where you weren’t a person I resented.

You walked into a place because we’re never in the same room anymore, and it was full of people. You were simply one of them.

You shot me a cynical look for old time’s sake, but I didn’t catch it. I couldn’t tell what you were thinking.

It’s not our crowd and not the life we care to live, but there we were, thriving. Each of us alone.

We knew this. We know this.

In public, we portrayed acceptance and civility. In private, we contemplated the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘why nots.’

Words between us were shame, blame and hurt wrapped up in sweet greetings. But at least now we listen.

We walked into each other’s lives as strangers and as strangers we’ve exited.

I look away from you to find a sense of belonging, because you feel like the cold unknown.

I write about you but never to magnify your importance. Most times it’s simply to release you.